Chapter Xxiv
In their delightful flat in the 10th Arrondissement, Ahmed ben Lulla and Francoise were lying on the bed. They were a perfect, contented couple. Ahmed had regular work and Francoise no longer propped up the doorway of a hotel to earn a living for both of them. Everything past seemed like a nightmare of several nights ago which one hardly remembered but which left a vague disquiet somewhere in the subconscious.
The only trouble was that Francoise had found that since her half dozen lovers a night had been reduced to one she took an enormous amount of satisfying. But Ahmed was doing his valiant best. It wasn't a serious complaint.
"Let's again, darling," she whispered, stroking his half-inflated penis which was still wet from the last time. He kissed her taut, demanding breasts and ran his hands over her naked body.
"I'll have to employ a stand-in," he said with a grin as, fully erect now, he slithered onto her and began to thread his hips between her thighs in a long, smooth rhythm.
Lying alone in bed, Michele Raimond felt very proud of her husband, who'd had such universal recognition for his cracking up of the NLF. Already she'd put behind her the ghastly experience she'd undergone at their hands. After all, she'd told Pierre everything and time was covering it over like new grass growing up. She still had her secret about the American, but it was just as well to have one secret from a man when you loved him so much. She fell asleep, wishing Pierre were there to make love to her the way he'd been making love to her these past nights. What a man he was for work. She pouted to herself. But she had pleasant dreams.
Pierre Raimond was "working" hard. Thrust, thrust, thrust-in, in, in and Rolande writhed and twisted and groaned under him in that special volcanic way of hers which filled him with such excitement. In his hands her buttocks were like footballs.
As he worked in, deep into her loins, it occurred to him that he'd really robbed the National Liberation Front of everything they possessed.